The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Gold has replaced the soul of many a man,” he muttered, when Nermesa had finished.

  “Mitra be praised for miracles,” Callista added, refusing to let such talk bring everyone down. “You are alive and safe, Nermesa! I won’t let you leave us again, do you hear?”

  Bolontes stepped up beside her. “That’s not up to us. I would like to speak with him alone for a moment, my dear. Then, we’d best let him rest again for a while. Three days is hardly enough.”

  “Three days?” blurted Nermesa.

  “Fever from the wounds had you until this morning. When the healer announced that it had broken, we were all very relieved.” To his wife, Bolontes said, “Callista? If you please?”

  Nermesa’s mother was reluctant to leave. She finally would do so only when Nermesa promised that he would try to eat the broth that she would have sent up to his room.

  Alone with his son, Bolontes suddenly looked more stricken. He dropped down on one knee by the bedside and gripped Nermesa’s hand. “By god, I thought you were dead, my son! When you did not return after your ride, I feared the worst, and when I heard that Khatak had escaped, I could not but help wonder if there was a connection.”

  “He wouldn’t leave without me, Father. He wanted to show his followers and the Picts that his totem had power over mine. He intended to have me flayed alive before the headmen of the tribes.”

  The elder Klandes grimaced. “Never tell your mother that part, please.”

  “I won’t. I’m sorry to have frightened all of you.”

  “This was not your doing . . . but I cannot help but feel some guilt of my own. If not for our argument, you might have escaped the trap.”

  Nermesa shook his head. “He wouldn’t leave Tarantia without me. His pride wouldn’t let him. Somehow, he and his cohorts would have found some method by which to catch me alone.”

  “Well, the beast is dead, and good riddance! They should have strung him up the first day he was turned over to the Iron Tower.” Bolontes grunted. “A great mess that! They’ve arrested two others there on suspicion of aiding the brigand.”

  “Did Lucian really have the influence to get him out of the Tower?” Nermesa suddenly asked.

  “You’d think not, but there’s no trail leading elsewhere, and Lucian of Karaban will be telling us nothing more.”

  Which perhaps is why they made certain to kill him, Nermesa could not help thinking. The men with whom the aristocrat had dealt had been far more desperate than he. Greed had caused Lucian to make a terrible error in judgment.

  Nermesa suddenly felt very tired and hungry. He must have shown some of this change, for Bolontes looked more concerned. “I should let you rest. I daresay the food will be up here at any moment, and your mother will want you to have the strength to eat it.” He hesitated. “But, if you can, there is just one more matter I would quickly discuss with you.”

  “What?”

  “Orena.”

  Nermesa desired nothing more than to ignore that particular subject, but allowed his father to go on.

  “What you said,” Bolontes began cautiously. “You mean it still? You would end the betrothal?”

  “I would,” Nermesa replied, trying to sound as strong as possible. “Don’t ask me why, just understand that I have good reason.”

  “It would have to be, for you to do this. She has asked about you, Nermesa. More than once.”

  “If she truly wishes to know I’m well, tell her, but that doesn’t change the situation.”

  “You are as a great boulder in this. Unmovable.”

  Nermesa nodded again. Thought of Orena, however, made him wonder about another. “How is Telaria? Do you know if the palace treats her well?”

  His father’s expression became unreadable. “As a matter of fact, she also asked about your health. I understand that the queen is quite pleased with her.” Bolontes cocked his head. “And you had something to do with the invitation from the palace in the first place, as I recall. Interesting . . .”

  If he hoped for an explanation from Nermesa, it was not forthcoming. Nermesa would respect Orena’s position that far. He also desired no embarrassment to fall upon Telaria, an innocent in all this.

  He was saved from further discussion by the appearance of the young servant, this time with a bowl of steaming broth on the tray. Smelling beef, Nermesa suddenly felt an immense chasm in his stomach open up.

  His father stepped away. “Enjoy the food, if you can. Rest afterward. I understand Pallantides may be visiting before long.”

  Hunger and pain were momentarily forgotten. “The general? Here?”

  This drew a brief smile from Bolontes. “Of course. You’re the conqueror of Khatak the Terrible . . . twice.”

  With that said, he left Nermesa to his food. The knight toyed with the broth as he tried to digest what had happened to him. It was truly a miracle that he had survived. Only Khatak’s desire to bring him back alive to torture before the Picts had enabled Nermesa to lie in his bed now.

  He had not intended any of this when he had joined. Nermesa had assumed that he would see battle, naturally, but never had he dreamed that he would personally be thrust into such dire situations.

  But this is the end of it. Things will calm after this, the heir to Klandes thought as he took his first sip of broth. They have to.

  Surely, they had to.

  GENERAL PALLANTIDES DID not come for three more days, perhaps having kept track of Nermesa’s condition without the noble knowing. When he did arrive, it was without fanfare. He wore a simple but elegant tunic and pants, with high leather boots, all draped by a travel cloak.

  “I see you are faring well, young Klandes.”

  His wounds still stung, but otherwise Nermesa felt much better. He said so to the commander, adding, “I’m honored by your visit.”

  “You honor me with your presence,” Pallantides returned. “I bring the congratulations of King Conan to you.” The leader of the Black Dragons drew from under his cloak an elegant blade, its sheen evidence of its recent forging. The silver handle had a rearing lion etched into it. “He thinks you’ve had enough of medals and would prefer a worthy weapon instead.”

  Nermesa straightened, unable at first to express his gratitude. The sword had clearly been crafted from the finest steel. In the hilt were three exceptional emeralds. When Pallantides handed it over to him, Nermesa could immediately sense that the balance and weight were perfect.

  It was a fabulous weapon, a gift of great significance. “I don’t deserve this . . .”

  “You are possibly the only one in Tarantia who believes that. You are an exceptional fighter, Klandes. When the king gives out such a gift as opposed to the medals so many sycophants prefer, it’s because he admires your abilities . . . and thus, you.” The general grinned. “I’ve been honored so myself, so you can take my word for it.”

  “Please . . . thank him for me.”

  “Of course.” Pallantides undid the belt and sheath. “This goes with it, of course. I brought it in like this because your father thought your mother might be a little upset with such an offering just now. Reveal it to her in a couple of days.” He cocked an eyebrow. “She believes that you’ll be calling an end to your military career now. That isn’t so, is it?”

  “No! Of course not!” Nermesa almost blurted out, I still hope to become one of the Black Dragons . . .

  “Glad I am to hear that. Good swords and level heads ”Glad I am to hear that. Good swords and level heads are needed now.”

  Nermesa did not miss his change in tone. The young knight’s grip on the sword tightened, as if something might very well happen in his room at this very moment. “What do you mean?”

  “News came to us just yesterday. The Picts are massing in numbers unbelievable. They’ve attacked three different areas, in two cases massacring large contingents of soldiers.” Pallantides scowled. “I believe you rode briefly with General Octavio.”

  At first, Nermesa could say nothing. He recall
ed Octavio and even the faces of some of the men he knew would have been riding with the veteran commander.

  “General Boronius is organizing a sweep that will hopefully push them back into the wilderness, but he is short on dependable subordinates and has requested you in particular to return . . . if you should choose to.”

  “Me? But why me in particular?”

  “The Picts are a superstitious lot. Khatak was a man of power to them, one with the favor of their chief god . . .”

  “Gullah . . .” Nermesa muttered, recalling the brigand’s mention of the creature more than once.

  “Gullah,” the commander agreed. “There is no greater and more feared deity among the Picts . . . and you overcame his chosen warrior. More important, word should soon be reaching the frontier concerning your having slain Khatak in combat.”

  “What? But how—”

  General Pallantides did not look apologetic. “Winning a war is as much about the mind as it is the sword, Klandes. So the king would tell you, too. Whether or not you were able to return west, we thought it best to spread the tale of Khatak’s demise so that it reaches the tribes and perhaps demoralizes them. It might save many Aquilonian lives . . . and your actual presence there might save even more.”

  That it might cost Nermesa his own in the process, the recovering fighter also understood very well. Yet, despite that, he felt no inclination to refuse. His parents, especially his mother, might wish otherwise, but to turn his back on those in the west would have seemed to Nermesa a betrayal worse than that perpetrated by Lucian and the men-at-arms working with Khatak.

  “I’ll go.”

  The commander of the Black Dragons raised a hand in warning. “I’m grateful for the enthusiasm, but think it over while you recover. I want to send no man there whose head was not clear when he made his decision. There are deaths enough on my conscience, though I could have done nothing to prevent most of them.”

  Shaking Nermesa’s hand, Pallantides bid him farewell. Long after the general had departed, the recovering noble continued to stare off into the air. His hand stroked the hilt of the new sword as he considered all that the man had told him. It was not a simple thing that Pallantides requested; Nermesa understood that, for all their possible respect for the slayer of Khatak, the Picts would seek his death. Yet, if he could turn the tide of battle . . .

  He raised the sword, twice swinging it as best as he could while sitting in bed. Its pristine blade gleamed.

  But not for long. I go to the west, and it’ll soon be stained red.

  General Pallantides had insisted that he think it over while he continued to recuperate, but Nermesa knew his decision would not change. He would return to the Westermarck and do what he could to stave off the Pict assault.

  And if Mitra chose that he would perish there, he hoped that it would be fulfilling his duty.

  A WEEK PASSED before Nermesa was well enough to prepare for the journey. His mother insisted that he rest longer, but news continued to filter out of the Westermarck. Settlements were being burned, patrols attacked. Khatak’s band of brigands seemed at the heart of the matter; but whenever General Boronius sent out soldiers to run them down, either the bandits were nowhere to be found or the hunters discovered themselves in a trap.

  “I must go,” he told his mother and father. “I might be able to help in some way.” Nermesa had attempted to explain Pallantides’ reasoning as to why the Picts might hesitate with him in the Westermarck, but Callista was having none of it. “I might save some lives.”

  “And what of your own life?”

  “Mitra will watch over me,” was the only reply he had, one that did not at all satisfy her. Still, in the end, she had no choice but to acquiesce. Nermesa intended to go whether his parents approved or not.

  To his surprise, this time his father was more supportive. Clearly, Bolontes did not wish him to leave, but he seemed to understand. “If Pallantides and you believe this necessary, I can only wish you a safe journey . . . and ask you to come back to us again.”

  Nermesa hooked on his belt. The grand gift from his king hung at his side. Callista eyed it with venom, even though it would be her son’s first and last line of defense.

  Bidding his parents farewell, he rode to the palace, where General Pallantides surprised him with a column of soldiers some two hundred strong . . . all under Nermesa’s command.

  “Boronius recommended it, and I agree,” stated the commander. The king led his first such fighting force when he was still several summers younger than you. I led mine when I was perhaps a year less your age.”

  He handed Nermesa his orders, which essentially read that the column was to head to Scanaga. There, he would report to Boronius for further instructions. Riders had already gone on ahead to spread word that the warrior who had taken down the favored of Gullah was returning.

  “Ride wary, Klandes, and forgive me for putting the bull’s-eye center on you.”

  “I understand.”

  “The Poitainian knights under Sir Prospero are massing in the southwest. Should matters grow dire, they’ll be riding up from there to aid.”

  Nermesa remounted his stallion and prepared to order the column out. Pallantides caught his attention first, though, and pointed up toward the palace. “I believe someone else wishes your attention.”

  Glancing back, Nermesa noted a feminine figure standing on one of the balconies. Elegantly clad in a flowing gown, she was at first a stranger to him. Only when he saw that the cascading hair was auburn did he realize that it was Telaria. Her expression taut, she waved farewell to him.

  Grateful, he nodded back to her, then took charge of his troops. Drawing his sword, Nermesa pointed toward the gates. A mounted man-at-arms sounded the horn, and the column began marching. The gold-and-black lion banner of King Conan was raised high.

  The journey back to the Westermarck began.

  14

  THE COLUMN LEFT Tarantia in sunlight, but as the days brought them nearer to Scanaga, the sky grew overcast. Thick, black clouds threatened, and the winds turned violent. Their progress quickly slowed.

  If there was one bit of fortune, it was that they encountered no other obstacles along their way. With a force of two hundred men, Nermesa might have been expected not to worry about surprise attacks, but, though still distant from the wilderness, the lessons of General Octavio—and, more importantly, Quentus—bitterly remained with him. It did not pay to be overconfident even in “safe” regions.

  At last, the Bossonian Marches, which to Nermesa signaled the true beginning of the west, rose ahead. Nermesa ordered the column to be extra vigilant despite the security Ranaric’s people themselves provided. In this area, it was still possible for Picts to sneak through, although they did so at tremendous risk.

  The forests began to thicken. Nermesa eyed each tree warily, still recalling the horror of the night when his friend had perished.

  And it seemed his concern had merit, for, midway through the Marches, the new commander suddenly noticed the foliage in one tree shake as if something large perched among the branches.

  Drawing his weapon, Nermesa called up the archers.

  “Hold your fire!” a voice from the tree called. A second later, a green-and-brown clad figure with a bow slung over his shoulder alighted easily on the path.

  The Bossonian waited until Nermesa gave him permission to approach. “I seek the knight, Nermesa. Would that be you?”

  “It is.”

  The local bowed. “Commander Nermesa, I bring the greetings of Ranaric. He was told that you’d be passing this way. There’s a line of foul weather coming this way. He advises a route taking you just north of your usual one until you’re a day or two from Scanaga to avoid the worst storms.”

  Even as the man explained, Nermesa felt a drop of moisture strike his cheek. The path directly ahead did look the darkest. “Thank him and say that I hope his arrows ever fly true.”

  The Bossonian looked pleased that Nermesa would know o
ne of his people’s most favored oaths of luck. He bowed again to the Aquilonian, then silently slipped back into the forest.

  The rain started in earnest only minutes later. The moment that it was possible, Nermesa began guiding his men northward. Ranaric’s suggestion proved an excellent one, enabling the column to avoid some areas that their commander recalled would have been reduced to mud by now. So near the Pict regions, being bogged down in such a manner could have resulted in catastrophe.

  The rains continued through much of the rest of the journey, growing more intense as the Aquilonians passed into the Westermarck. Nermesa doubled the guards and kept the camps well lit, but no trouble occurred. In that sense, he thought, the terrible weather had actually aided his cause.

  It was with tremendous relief that he sighted the settlements just east of Scanaga some days later. Even more of a relief was the fact that they appeared untouched. Nermesa had secretly feared that he would arrive to find the territorial capital in ruins, its inhabitants slaughtered.

  The torrential rain kept most of the settlers in their simple homes, but a few braved the weather to view the newcomers. Nermesa could read nothing from their expressions; they showed neither relief at his coming nor disappointment that he did not bring more men than he had.

  The wooden walls of Scanaga finally loomed. A horn blared, and the gates opened to receive them . . .

  And, at that moment, a sense of foreboding coursed through Nermesa.

  There was no reason for such a dire feeling, yet the knight could not shake it. His uneasiness grew as he rode through the town. Everything appeared normal enough, but there seemed a tension pervading the area. It was not featured in the faces of the locals, but Nermesa was certain of it nevertheless.

  Only when he reached the inner fort did some physical hint of his concerns reveal itself. The sentries on the wall eyed his column’s arrival with mixed expressions. They looked as if they wanted to cheer the reinforcements’ arrival, yet were not certain if doing so was somehow premature.

  As Nermesa called a halt, he was surprised to see that it was Caltero, not Boronius, who came to greet him officially.